Champagne
by RaisedOnRadio
Summary: My heart is gold, but my hands are cold. [one shot]


**Champagne**

 _My heart is gold, but my hands are cold._

Timeline: Around 3 years later

Word Count: 1497 / Finished on 7-28-16

* * *

…

When Oliver had started going back to Japan on a regular basis, he had to decide whether to get an apartment or continue living in the hotel which had been his home for over a year.

The hotel was safer. It kept him detached, and always gave him the right to pack up his things and leave without looking back. No strings, no mess.

So he could not explain why he ended up with a small apartment a short distance from the office. To top it off, he had barely settled in before going back to England for another month. He had wanted to see it as a waste of money, but there had been something oddly comforting to arrive in Japan that morning and know there was a place available to him which nobody had touched without his permission.

He set down his two small bags and flipped on the light. Since the neighborhood was upscale the landlord had not been worried when Oliver said he was going out the country for some time, as long as he had paid in advance.

The air smelled a little stale and there was a fine coat of dust on the few books he had left. He probably should have paid for a cleaning service, but since there were so few items to actually clean, he knew it would have been an unnecessary luxury. Since he had no possessions for most of his young life, his books were the only material objects he cared for. The important ones were safe in his parents' home in England or at the JSPR office.

In contrast, Eugene had been a collector of strange things. Luella and Martin had outright encouraged collecting; they felt it had the potential of a good investment. But the things Eugene had owned were not what most people considered collectible.

Oliver did not know why, but he clearly remembered the champagne bottle. It was not until Oliver was much older when he had realized it had been a classy, expensive brand. He had never asked where Eugene had gotten it. Luella and Martin were not heavy drinkers, but there was alcohol available during the occasional party. It was possible Eugene had squirreled a bottle to his room. Hopefully it had been emptied beforehand.

Sometimes Eugene put it on the windowsill with a flower or two. Other times it sat in the corner gathering dust. It always managed to not end up in the donation box when Luella made him clear out his room.

As Oliver placed a twin of that bottle on the counter, it was not hard to understand where these memories had surfaced from. He set a small pile of mail he had picked up just a few moments before next to it. They were only bills since few people even knew he had rented the place.

He opened his cabinet where a few plain white dishes sat, forlorn from being abandoned for so long. He reached for a water glass, since he clearly would not have a wine glass in his possession, and paused when he saw the pair of tall flutes in the back corner. He would blame Luella or Madoka for their presence.

It was late evening, September the nineteenth. The airfare rates had been most reasonable if he arrived today. It was just a birthday, after all. He was now twenty-one-years old. The age didn't really matter; he had already been able to legally drink in Japan and England. But in the United States, buying alcohol for the first time would be a big deal. Oliver just knew Eugene would have clung to the notion, despite having not lived in his birth country for many years.

It was uneventful to open the bottle. There was no reason to be pompous, no one to show off to. He was alone and he was all right with it. Perhaps there was a flaw in his code. After all, he had been called a robot often enough.

He washed one glass with soap retrieved from under the kitchen sink, poured the champagne, and left the full glass on the counter. There it sat, pale and sparkling.

He had gone to the store to find something simple to eat. He had ended up with just the champagne bottle at the checkout. Why he had wandered down the liquor aisle in the first place was a good question.

The cashier had picked up the champagne bottle with eyebrows raised, and had asked if Oliver was celebrating. Oliver had not understood the fuss. The man worked in an upscale grocery; it wasn't like they were at a corner convenience store. Surely it wasn't the first time he had sold expensive imported alcohol.

"No," Oliver had said, "I'm honoring my dead brother."

"Oh." The cashier's smile, as artificial as the florescent lights overhead, had quickly disappeared. Oliver automatically flipped open his wallet and let the man see the birth date before he realized he had not been asked for it. It was a minor issue of living between cultures.

The man examined the card with a pointed expression as if he had every intention of asking in the first place and Oliver had beaten him to it.

A look of genuine horror came onto his face. "He died on your birthday?"

"No," Oliver had said, "But it would have been his birthday too. It's the least I can do."

Oliver picked up the stemware and took a sip. If he had been a different person, drinking could have been an escape. He had never found solace in it. To be drunk meant he had given over full control of his mind and body to a foreign substance.

The taste was fine, but he would not have been able to tell the difference from a cheap bottle. He felt a tinge of guilt for using the money frivolously. Eugene would have been disappointed in him for not at least inviting someone else over to drink with him.

He pushed the thoughts away. Maybe it was insanity, but he had to admit he really only wanted the bottle. If people who knew him found out it was because of a childhood memory, they would have thought he had lost it.

He grasped the bottle by its neck and took it to the sink. He poured it down the drain without giving himself the chance to change his mind. The fumes were heady as the liquid glugged and fizzed. When the bottle was empty, he turned on the faucet to rinse it out, first letting the hot water warm his hands. He had not realized the apartment was chilled. He would need to turn up the thermostat.

The phone rang.

He eyed it as he let the bottle fill with water, a plain liquid it was not accustomed to. He had spoken to his parents already. He had talked to Madoka, which did the double duty of being in contact with Lin as well. Sir Dorey had left a voicemail earlier.

The answering machine kicked in.

"Hey, Naru," the female voice said. "Um. I'm sure you're there. I've seen you ignore the phone plenty of times to check who was calling first. So pick up."

For a moment, Oliver did consider ignoring her. Just before she would have hung up, for he knew the exact length she was willing to wait on an answering machine before she gave in, he left the bottle in the sink and picked up the handset.

"Hello Mai," he said.

"Ha!" He could feel her grin through the phone. "I knew it!" She paused a moment. "So you're back in Japan?"

"Mai, you know this phone is connected to the Japanese apartment." He reached for the glass which he had neglected to empty as well. It was just a little too far for the phone's cord.

"Happy birthday."

He would later blame it on the fact that his fingers had still been wet as the flute danced away from his reach and tipped over. The bills caught the glass before it rolled off the counter. They also did the job of soaking up most of its contents.

The slightest intake of breath was the closest thing he would release to a sigh of frustration. "I assumed you had forgotten," he said.

"It took me a bit to track you down. I never know which place to call." Her laugh was a clear, bright sound. "It's not too late if you want to get something to eat. Unless you've already celebrated?"

He watched the champagne start to drip down the side of the counter. Eugene would have laughed.

"No, I haven't," he said. He found a musty cloth in a drawer. Instead of cleaning up the spill he cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, dumped the bottle, and started to dry it. Maybe he would put it on the bookshelf. "Where do you want to meet?"

…

* * *

Inspired by the song 'Gasoline' by Halsey. Thanks for reading! ^^


End file.
